that old feeling
by piratesails
Summary: or 'the five times Killian Jones dances and the one time he doesn't.'
**a/n: idk I just like writing Killian feels (and have seen that bit of the cs movie way too many times)**

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I.

He rolls his sleeves up and his mother's laughter rings through the room like a catching melody. It takes him a few moments but he finally manages to place both of his bare feet on top of hers, hands grasping at her much larger ones. He adjusts his neck, craning it all the way back so that he can see the dark curls that frame his mother's face, her eyes that shine a wondrous glow in the low torchlight.

Liam chuckles from his place by the fire, looking up from the novel in his hand to regard Killian with mirth. He scrunches his brows at his elder brother, close to sticking his tongue out in annoyance until he hears his mother call his name.

"Are you ready, my love?" she questions, smiling.

He nods vigorously, and traps his bottom lip in between his teeth in concentration as his mother begins her measured steps. Killian attempts to read them, to learn them, to focus on the way she glides them across the hardwood in time with the humming that escapes her lips.

"You're following, aye?" she halts her humming to ask, still grasping his hands tightly and stepping to the side and then to the front.

There are stories that he hears, of Kings and Queens and dragons,of swirling magic that has the power to bring the strongest of men to his knees. Killian doesn't know if any of it is true because he's never seen it, never gone beyond the edge of the dock where he says goodbye to his father every few months. But his mother-

His mother cocks her head to the right and Killian mirrors the action, if only to get her to smile wider.

His mother makes him think that perhaps magic does exist.

"Aye," Killian confirms.

She carries him on her feet for a little while longer before she motions for Liam to take his place. His brother is older, doesn't need guidance like he does, his head reaching their mother's shoulder so he can move about on his own.

"Watch this one closely," she calls to Killian once she has one arm out and the other placed on Liam's shoulder. "It's called a waltz."

II.

Milah doesn't care much for dancing, and it's the least of his concerns. Their measured steps are only important when they're practicing sparring on the deck of the Jolly, the voices of his men loud and boisterous around them as they place bets.

(They bet on 'the Captain,' but that's the both of them - guaranteeing them victory either way, really. Bloody pirates.)

Milah doesn't care much for dancing and yet he finds himself with her in his arms well into a night after skirting through taverns and filling rum up until their throats. She's trying to choose a favourite land from the ones they've docked in in the past three months and he- he's trying not to kiss her as she speaks.

And then somehow she's got her hands on his shoulders, his own loosely at her waist.

"I didn't know pirates could dance like royalty," Milah croons, cutting off her monologue as he takes a simple step to the side. He thinks of the years he spent in the King's Navy, once he was finally out from under Silver's thumb and from under the weight of a glass bottle. He thinks of the amount of balls thrown in the honour of the service the crews were providing the kingdom, and how he spent nearly every second of those strategically (his speciality, of course) slipping into the shadowed corners to keep from being dragged into the main event.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to dance, but only that he was rusty. Wasn't sure he wouldn't trip over a beautiful lass's gown with his too-stiff limbs. (Wasn't sure if he wouldn't feel that pressing of his chest when he was reminded of his mother and her eyes that were so much like his own.) The Navy taught him Greek and navigating via the stars, but they did not teach him how to foxtrot in perfect tandem with the rest of the crowd. They really were rather useless in every way.

"I wasn't always a pirate, m'lady." His boots scuff against the wood as she smiles at him, keeps up with his languid pace. "My mother taught me a few things as a lad."

Milah hums but doesn't ask him any more.

"I'll admit," he continues when the silence stretches between them, "I am a bit out of practice."

He can't help but feel that the roles have been reversed since his first memory of the activity. He is the one leading, the one humming an old sea shanty, the one gripping carefully to the person he holds close to his heart.

(Surely it is different in a number of ways; in the way that the ground beneath him rocks steadily, in the heaviness he feels in his heart at the loss of his brother, in the hatred that burns in him for the King that the stories had told him would be right and just but turned out to be anything but.)

"I think you're perfect," Milah regards gently, leaning in to press her nose against his cheek.

(But, in some ways, it isn't too far off.)

III.

"Watch the mocking I'm actually get the hang of this."

"I'm not mocking you, Swan, just thinking about what you said in Storybrooke," he clarifies, "About not being a princess."

He hasn't danced in centuries but somehow he manages to remember all the right places to turn and lift his hands.

His eyes follow her form as she circles around him, and how can they not? She's a vision in red. "Really?" she bites at him without any real bite. "You get my first dance at my first royal ball and all you can say is 'I told you so'?"

He could tell her that she has gotten his first dance at a royal ball, but he supposes burdening her with that piece of information may cause that smile on her lips to fade. He doesn't think she's smiled at him for as long as this, doesn't think he's seen her look this happy before.

(By the way he feels his cheeks stretch and ache involuntarily, he assumes he's worse.)

And this place- well, he shouldn't really be counting his fortune when they're stuck in a time that isn't theirs with a clock running against them. It's all about time, it always is. But right now, it feels like a tear in the fabric of it, a little bubble of opportunity they've been given.

Killian smiles despite himself, squeezes her hand a little tighter as he gets up from his kneeling position only to give her a bow. "I believe what I'm trying to say, Your Highness, is that you appear to be a natural."

Emma smiles at him and the seconds freeze where they are.

It's a struggle to keep his eyes from trailing back to her lips. It's an even bigger struggle to remember that they're here on a mission (that they're here, which is more of there if he thinks too hard about it not being the present), and not simply attending a royal ball with one another. They keep their ears on the Prince and his conversation with his betrothed (who is not supposed to be his betrothed because she isn't Emma's mother and bloody hell), and he could roll his eyes at the amount of spite in both their tones.

He's about to make a remark when the Prince leaves his place to brush past them. He turns back to Emma in an attempt to stay discreet and loses his thoughts once again in the green of her eyes. Loses all sense of place and time when she smiles at him once more, moving perfectly with the tinkling tune of the orchestra.

VI.

She pulls a little at his hook as she spins, the white of her dress twirling around her. There is nothing dark about her here, nothing that tells him that she is anything close to consumed by centuries worth of pain and anger.

"Have you been practicing without me?" he teases once she's closer to him, raising an eyebrow for good measure.

Indeed, she has gotten better, but he's hardly paying mind to that after finally having the chance to hold her close to him for longer than a few minutes.

"Maybe," she smirks.

Camelot is darker than the Enchanted Forest, he's noted. And the ballroom is no different. It's definitely a far cry from the jungles of Neverland, but dull tones nonetheless. It might be fitting, with everything that's led them here. But Emma wears white and it surrounds her like a pure glow, so much so that it had his breath catching when she'd descended down the staircase and made her way to him.

"What's on your mind?"

"Nothing, love," he reassures her. She measures him with a disbelieving look, never once losing her footing. He sighs, but smiles because he just can't help himself. "I'm just glad we found you."

It takes her a few moments before she hums and looks up at him. "Yeah, me too."

And he sees it in her eyes, pure and simple, she loves him. And he knows that there is nothing that is going to stop them from getting the darkness out of her and getting them home, so long as they're doing it together.

V.

There's no music this time, not even a soft humming surrounding them. Instead, it is Emma's deep exhales somewhere close to his ear, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat that he feels where her chest is pressed against his own.

The house is dark given the fact that it's the middle of the night, only a bare amount of green glow emanating from the microwave clock.

He'd woken to her side of the bed empty, sheets rumpled and still warm with her body heat. It hadn't taken him too long to find her braced against the kitchen counter, her eyes trained studiously on the floor.

"You alright, love?" he'd inquired softly, and she'd responded by striding over and curling her arms around him, leaving barely any space between them.

He knows it was a nightmare, but he also knows she won't speak of it until she's ready. So when she'd loosened her grip, slid her hands to the back of his neck and began swaying a little in small circles, he'd followed. (He will always follow her.)

Emma had informed him once that this is one of the manners that the people of this realm considered dancing. He'd scrunched his nose up in confusion then, something of mild distaste, opting to tell her how that would never be fit for a court of any kind. She'd laughed, as she so often did when he questioned the ridiculous notions of the Land Without Magic, and kissed his cheek before telling him she'd show him someday.

He takes his words back now, finds that these slow and uncalculated movements have a comfort of their own.

It's been harder since the Underworld. Sometimes he sits and mourns everything he's lost for hours on end, sometimes it's Emma that curls into herself and has trouble remembering how to breathe.

But it's also been easier; for him to believe in himself, for her to be vulnerable without her armour stopping her.

"Thank you," he hears her whisper and feels her press a kiss on his neck. She pulls back a little to meet his eyes, her hair tickling his chin in the process. "For everything."

Rather than dissecting her train of thought, he gives her a little shake of his head to brush off whatever it is that she's worrying about, and bends down to capture her lips. She takes no time in responding, and he makes sure to pour every ounce of his own gratitude into it. He owes her everything, body and soul.

His fingers tighten at her waist when she ends the kiss, wondering for the millionth time how he got so lucky.

"I love you." It's gentle and kind and it still hits him in his heart to think he'd be deserving of her love, her true love.

His eyes are still closed when he nudges her nose with his own. "I love you, too," he replies, voice far quieter than the loud thrumming of his heart. "More than you can imagine."

VI.

"Your dad taught me this one," Emma's voice carries outside the room and to where he's standing at the top of the stairs. His curiousity carries him to the doorway where Emma's hands are outstretched holding Hope's as she bounces a little on the balls of her feet.

There's a crooning melody playing from the side of the room, out of one of Emma's devices, he's sure. It isn't something he recognizes but it fits rather well.

"Really?" his daughter asks softly.

It's strange some days, to think he has a daughter. One that has Emma's hair and his mother's eyes. One that spent most of her year as a two year old clinging to him in every way she could manage.

He never knew his heart could feel this large.

"Yup," Emma affirms, leading her in circles around her bedroom, the pace slow enough that Hope can copy her movements.

"It makes sense, he is your prince."

Emma laughs at that, "No, honey, he's a pirate. Or was. In some ways, he still is." Killian leans against the doorway and smiles, revelling in being an outside observer to their quiet moment.

It's only a matter of years, he assumes, before his daughter will be tall enough to stand with her shoulders exactly against his own. But right now, at the beautiful age of 6 - just a little older than when his mother pulled him up and into the middle of the living room to show him how to dance - she's trying to keep up with Emma with her short legs.

"No, mom," she says, shaking out her blonde curls as she reprimands her mother, "he's a pirate, but he's your prince. Because you're a princess."

As she twirls Hope, Emma's eyes flit up to catch his. He gives her a smile when they don't waver, and then mouths Yours even though she knows it already. She grins at him in reply.

"And I'm a princess, too?" Hope asks, clearly confused as to her lineage. Killian doesn't blame her, her family tree goes beyond even his own understanding most days.

Emma's gaze goes back to their daughter. "Well, if you want to be, sure."

It's also strange to think sometimes that Hope is a product of true love, much like Emma. She's his little girl, but he knows that she's going to be stronger than the both of them.

"I'll think about it."

Emma twirls her once more before she tells her it's time for bed. He steps back into the hall as he hears Hope groan and restrains a chuckle at her strong will.

When Emma finally steps out of the bedroom, closing the door slowly behind her, she walks up to him and places a hand over his heart. He brings his own to cover hers immediately, pressing it closer into his shirt.

"She got your stubbornness," Emma says with a chuckle.

"Mine? Are you certain of that?"

"Shut up," she scoffs. "She got the hang of that waltz pretty quickly."

Killian hums as he pulls her into their bedroom, "Just like her mother."

"And her father," Emma says without missing a beat, pulling him back into her arms to place a chaste kiss to his lips. She presses another one to the corner of his mouth and he feels a spark of her magic where her lips meet his skin. It's his favourite feeling, the way her magic surges through him, fills up the places that he doesn't even remember he had.

Emma drops her head onto his shoulder, effectively mumbling her next words, "Hope said she wants you to teach her how to dance next time."

Killian chuckles and presses a kiss to her hair, thinks of his own mother in that instant. "Aye, love, I'd be more than happy to."


End file.
